


Full Moon

by kriegersan



Category: Archer (Cartoon)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 20:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2123265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriegersan/pseuds/kriegersan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lana dies. Kinda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Moon

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Rape/non-con is referenced within this fic. Also my standard warnings for in-character misogyny/homophobia/racism/etc. There are not nice people within this fic.
> 
> Depictions of BDSM (consensual), spanking, and bloodplay. 
> 
> Takes place somewhere all AU-like mid-season 4.
> 
> Inspired by this song/video initially: [Full Moon by Sunmi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8BBF3vRY85M), but also draws elements from True Blood and other vampire related junk.

They stopped looking for Lana after about 4 months. Malory stamped her record as _Missing in Action_ and added her to the archive, Archer wordlessly swirling the ice in his drink, stone-faced. 

They had a funeral on a Tuesday, it was raining, and nobody felt like giving a speech for an empty grave from a body never recovered. Pam cleared her throat, umbrella knocking Krieger in the side of the head, and said, “Well, she had great tits. I’ll sure miss ‘em,” before Malory threw down her bouquet with disgust, and headed back to her limo.

The rest of the crew stood there staring at the headstone, Cyril blowing his nose noisily, before Cheryl said, “So... I vote we all get wasted.”

“I also vote that,” replied Pam.

“Me three.” Ray chewed his lips.

Cyril sniffed loudly, pushing his glasses up to wipe his eyes. “I can’t believe she’s really gone.”

“Yeah, well, she is,” Archer said, flatly. He callously jabbed the other man in the arm, turning on his heel. “Come on, you idiots.”

“How can you all be so okay with this!” yelled Cyril, as the rest of ISIS trailed after Archer. “Lana is _dead_!” They stopped, looking back at him as he shook with barely contained anger.

“We are the exact opposite of okay with this. Hence the collective need to drink ourselves into oblivion,” snarked Ray, going back to collect the bespectacled man. Cyril didn’t budge as Ray pulled him by the shoulder. “Cyril, come on. Standing there feeling shitty isn’t gonna bring her back.”

“Well, neither is drinking myself into a coma!”

“Look, Cyril, if you want to sit around feeling sorry for yourself, you’re entitled to do that, but the rest of us are gonna celebrate Lana’s life! The way she would’ve wanted us to. By getting epically _schwasted_ in her honor!” called Pam, pulling a flask out of her jacket, nailing Krieger in the head with her umbrella again. He ducked, sidling his way over to Archer. “So come! For the schwasteyness! Maybe Cheryl can even give you a pity beej!”

“Hey!” Cheryl snatched the flask away in retribution. “Actually… maybe. Wait no. Ew. Maybe.”

They ended up at their usual dive bar, Cyril miserably in tow, Archer feeding him shot after shot to put an end to his bitching. He passed out on the table after an hour or so, Archer turning his head to make sure he, at least, didn’t pass out in a puddle of his own vomit.

Ray started crying abruptly a few drinks in, bemoaning the loss of his best friend. Pam patted his back, pushed her chicken fingers and fries in his general direction, which he proceeded to devour handful by handful while crying. It was incredibly dignified.

“That’s good, eat your feelings, drunkie pants. Always works for me,” she said, leaning her weight onto him. 

“But my b-best friend is _dead_!” he wailed, hand flying down on the table, catching the end of his plate. Fries flew into the air, landing on the table, some in Krieger’s lap. Pam reached across Ray and stole the ones off of the doctor’s pants, shoving them into her mouth. “And ain’t nothin’ gonna bring her back! How am I supposed to stay in this shit for shit company without _at least_ one other sane person to keep me from killing all y’all!?”

“Aw, come on, buddy. Malory can totally hire another mostly sane black lady! It’s just like getting a new puppy! She’ll be young and cute and a good replacement to fill the void, or whatever, and eventually you’ll totally forget about the old, trusting eyes and whining noises the other one made when you brought it out back to put a bullet in it. Or however that metaphor goes, I don’t know, I only saw half the movie.” 

“Pam, just... quit while you’re ahead,” said Archer, sighing. He finished off his drink, leaning back in the booth. Booze wasn’t really helping all that much, after all. He just felt kind of sick.

“But, yeah, hey! Ray we could totally get you a puppy!” Cheryl drummed her hands on the table, excited, grinning. “You could name it Lana! I wouldn’t even try to drown it or anything!”

“I hate you assholes,” muttered Ray, accepting another shot from Archer. “Especially you. I hate you the most, Archer.”

“Me? I didn’t _do_ anything. Aside from spend a shit ton of money getting you wasted tonight.” 

“Y-you’re the whole reason she went off on that Godforsaken mission!” 

Archer glared at him, Cyril groaning under his breath. “What was that, Ray?”

“You’re the reason she’s dead! She only went just to piss you off!” He sniffed. “So, I hate you the most… est. I hate you!”

“Yeah, well, she would’ve died _eventually_ whether or not it pissed Mr. Archer off. Have you ever seen her shoot? Like, Jesus, Leeroy Jenkins, much?” Cheryl wisely took another sip to shut herself up, Archer’s eyes burning a hole through her. 

“No, yeah, Ray. It’s totally my fault. Entirely. Blame me all you like while you pound back Glengoolie on my dime. Fuck.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet, slamming a couple hundreds down on the table. “Move, idiot.” He pushed Cyril off the bench, picking him up by the back of his shirt before he fell onto his face. 

“Aw, you’re leaving already?” whined Pam, claiming another fry. “I guess that rules out the pathetic pity post-ex-girlfriend-death sex I totally wanted to have with you later. Mostly consenting. I mean, when you were drunk enough.”

“Well, Pam, I still have my phone, so,” he replied, “No, wait. You… _Pam_.”

“Aww… but still, drop me a T-bomb me later, yo!”

“Gross,” said Cheryl, stealing a fry for herself.

He left the bar decidedly more sober than the rest of ISIS, a rarity for him really, not really all that sure what he was feeling. There was a part of him, yeah, that completely acknowledged he at least had a hand in Lana’s death. A finger, really. They’d fought terribly before she’d left, Lana cussing him out, snide as Malory had given her the mission he’d wanted, the allure of Romanian princesses too sweet to just let go. Covert infiltration, not really his specialty anyway, but he’d followed her through ISIS hurling insults at her, jealous and spiteful, trying to throw her off her game. 

God, he was such an idiot.

He paused on a street corner, pulling out his flask, tossing most of it back. He still felt sick. Archer wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wavering on two feet, gut crawling. Lana was dead. 

The street light overhead flickered, shadows cast over him, people walking by unperturbed. 

Lana was dead. 

He shoved his hands in his pockets, head down, and walked home.

\--- 

The next few months were a nightmare. A literal, unending nightmare. 

Nightfall hadn’t exactly been easy for him before, but Archer walked around like a zombie, drinking himself into a restless, fitful sleep most nights. Dark circles under his eyes, unable to focus in meetings, caffeine was essentially life support. The moonrise welcomed images of Lana waiting at the window, standing in the doorway, watching, hanging on the edge of his mind. 

He spent a lot more time falling into women’s beds, drinking, alone, burying himself in a mountain of books. Took more missions, trained the new girl, felt weird about her flirting because it just wasn’t the same. He fucked her, anyway, face down, fingers curled in her dark, thick hair. 

He couldn’t touch half of the movies he’d previously enjoyed, Lana’s annoyed sighs creeping into his mind, asking him what he liked about this stupid thing anyway, laughing under her breath at the funny parts. Waking up in the mornings with him, grouchy and hungover. Glaring at him, gun pointed forward, watching his hand signals as they cleared a room. Always there. He couldn’t get rid of her. Maybe it was fair. 

He knew he’d always taken her for granted, how much she mattered to him, but she was _gone_ , and it was at least a tiny bit his fault.

A full year went by. On the anniversary of the day they’d buried her, he skipped work, and Mother didn’t even call him with verbal abuse, for once.

He got sloshed on expensive whiskey and headed to the burial ground after hours of telling himself he wouldn’t go, standing over Lana’s empty grave with a slightly crushed bouquet in the tight hold of his fist.

“Fuck you… you… Lana,” he muttered, narrowing his stinging eyes against the bright glare of the sun. Saying her name hurt. He covered his mouth with his hand, toed weeds and cigarette butts from the headstone. Archer knelt down, setting the flowers gently against the cement, touched her name where it’d been carved in. “I miss you, idiot.”

He stayed for awhile, just sitting there, back flat against the stone, drinking himself into a stupor while he let himself think about her. He’d pushed it into the back of his mind, for the most part, like he did with everything else, and _God_ it hurt to let her in. It fucking killed him. He totally didn’t cry a little or anything, swallowing the last of his flask, sun going down in the distance.

His phone started ringing, and he blearily stared at it for a moment before flipping it open. “What, Cheryl.”

“Oh, wow, I totally thought I was gonna get your voicemail. Silly me, right?” There was a long, drawn out pause. “...Unless this is a voicemail... in which case, I make it a general policy not to converse with robots. I don’t speak binary. Have a good nigh—”

“Carol, it’s actually me. Archer. Sterling Archer.”

“Are you sure? Wait. Actually. Wait. Never mind. A robot wouldn’t identify itself, that would negate its encryption programming.” 

“Just get to the point, Carol.”

“Um, okay! You have this paperwork that I filed for you, well I mean I almost filed it, becaaaause... I need a signature! Yes, a signature. I think. Yo—”

“Can this wait.”

“Um, I _guess_ it could, Mr. _Rude_ , but I really need it by Thursday, September… oh my God, wow, I just realized what day it is. Wow, I’m sorry.” She snorted. “I guess.”

“I’m hanging up.” 

“No, wait!”

“ _What_.”

“I need the signature by September 4th. So… if you could… signature. For the filing. I need to do.”

“...Idiot.”

“Oh, and sorry about the anniversary of Lana being super dead or whatever. That, like, _totally_ sucks for you.” She laughed on the other end. “Bye!”

He shut his phone and stared at it, before hurling it into a bush. Fucking Cheryl. He staggered to his feet, intent on heading back home. 

The next few days passed in a drunken fog. He woke up most nights gasping for breath. He felt like he was sinking. He didn’t sleep for a few days, only finally collapsing into his bed, exhausted, after his body couldn’t take it anymore.

Until one night, in the early hours of the morning, he woke up to a noise.

A clunk, the glass doors opened, Archer sliding his hand under the pillow to recover his Walther PPK. He sat bolt upright, steadily aimed at the figure that had crept in through the window.

“Whoa, hey. Put the gun down. I’m not gonna hurt you, Archer. Probably.”

Archer sat there for a minute, heart pounding low in his throat. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had to be dreaming. Had to be.

“So… I’m not really sure if I’m still mid-nightmare, or if my tinnitus is acting up, but you sound a lot like my dead ex-girlfriend, so I’m gonna keep the gun aimed right where the hell I want it aimed.”

“You’re pretty shitfaced right now, hey? No, yeah, you totally are, I can smell it over here, ugh.”

“Okay, you _really_ sound like my dead— Lana. Definitely drank too much. Go away, dream lady, let me murder my liver in peace.”

She stepped forward, moonlight catching her skin, green eyes luminescent in the darkness. He kept the gun steady as she came into the glow, and clear as day, Lana stood there, nervous expression written over her unusually pale face. 

“Oh my God...”

“Yeah… um, hi.”

He slowly lowered the gun, unable to move, eyes fixated on his dead… Lana. Well, less dead, then. Slightly less dead. If he didn’t kill her again for leaving him. He had to be dreaming.

“What the fuck, Lana? What the _fuck_! Where were you!?” He started to get up, naked, uncaring, but she fixated him with a glare so powerful he felt all but compelled to stay in the bed. 

“Don’t—” She stopped, swallowing thickly, stepping back towards the window. “You can’t come near me right now. I have a lot of stuff to explain, um, to explain to you, but please, please just stay _right there_.”

“Okay, fine. Staying here. So… start talking.”

She flicked her eyes around the room, unsettled, leaning from foot to foot. Lana wasn’t wearing anything he’d seen her in before, covered from head to toe in billowy, unflattering clothes. She’d changed. Somehow. He could feel it.

“So…” she started, crossing her arms. “I actually… did die.”

He laughed uncomfortably, unable to look away. “You’re not dead. Lana, you are in front of me, decidedly the opposite of dead. We made a Goddamn grave for you. It’s been over a _year_.” He paused, inhaling noisily, jaw clenching. “Why the fuck did you come back now? Why not ear—”

“Because I would’ve hurt you. Archer, I couldn’t. I… I couldn’t have.”

“Yeah, well, you did hurt me, idiot.” She winced, like she’d been physically struck. “And now you’re _here_ , being hurtful, so I’m not exactly _getting_ the fundamental difference between the two scenarios.”

“Archer, you have to listen to me.” She took another step forward, and he slid closer towards the edge of the bed. God, he wanted to touch her. “I am _dead_.”

“She said, alive-ly, living and being very much alive.”

“Ugh. Just. You. _Ugh_. I can prove it to you. Don’t... freak out or whatever, okay?’

“ _Lana_.” 

Guarded, she crept closer to him, kneeling down about two feet away from the edge of the bed. He stared at her, bathed in the white light from the window, as she parted her lips, pulling up the top of her mouth with her index fingers. 

“Lana, why do you have fangs.”

“Um…”

“Lana, _why do you have fangs_.”

She rose back to her feet, pacing to lean against the bookshelf. “When I went on that mission… I got caught.”

“Classic Lana. Helpless without me.”

“No, shut up, I don’t need— wait, it wasn’t by the target.” Lana huffed, gaze cast downward. “This is gonna sound crazy, but… I got caught by a... vampire clan.”

“A vampire clan.”

“Yes. A vampire clan. You— stop laughing! On the way back. They cut my throat, and I thought they were going to just fuck me, bleed me and be done with it, but I managed to take one of them out, and then they decided to, um, turn me. And so… here I am. A vampire.”

He scoffed. “You are _not_ a vampire.”

“Archer, I am, indeed, a fucking vampire.”

“Prove it.”

“The fangs aren’t enough? Actually, wait, no, shoot me! In the head. I’ll survive.”

He stared at her. 

“Archer…”

“No.”

“Archer!” 

“I said, _no_ , woman. I’m not going to _shoot you in the head_. That seems like a piss-poor method of showing me how not-dead you are.”

“Okay, then give me your gun, and I will shoot _myself_ in the head. If that’s what it takes to prove this to you.” 

He gaped for a moment more, and then picked up the bottle on the bedside table, throwing it back. Lana opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a hand, shushing her, the corners of her lips turning sharply downward. 

“Sooo—”

“Lana, shut up.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I have to make totally sure I’m not just hallucinating you in some withdrawal-induced sex dream.” 

“Archer, give me your fucking gun!” She stamped her foot down, but still didn’t come closer. “I am _not_ a hallucination! I am a creature of the Goddamn night!”

“If you were really a vampire you would have some sort of powers to will me into doing your, um, vampire bidding.”

“That’s the whole fucking reason I couldn’t come back! I haven’t fed properly on a human host in ages, I don’t have the strength to do that.”

“So the obvious solution, then, at least to me, would be to pop a hole in my neck and suck me dry like a tropical punch Capri Sun. Kill both stones. Or birds. In a bush. Or however that one goes.”

“I can’t do that,” she replied, though her eyes burned with desire. He took another sip from the bottle, licking his lips as he pulled it away. Her eyebrows creased, and she turned away.

“Well, then, you’re obviously not a vampire, and I am not nearly drunk enough to banish you from this never-ending hell-hole of a dream.”

“I would kill you. If I tried… to um, do that.” 

“To _feed_ or whatever?”

“I don’t, um, have a whole lot of self control when it comes to that.” Lana clutched her arms in tighter on herself, stepping away from him. “The last couple human hosts I… uh…”

“ _Dined_ upon?”

“Yeah, um, _ate_ … well, they aren’t doing so... hot... these days.”

“Meaning they are cold and also dead, Lana?”

“Well, yeah, I thought that was kinda implied.”

“Since when have you ever felt bad about killing people. Come on.”

“I don’t care about killing people! I care about killing _you_ , stupid!” She turned away, likely embarrassed at her own admission, and Archer laughed despite himself. “Ugh… look, I’m basically a baby in vampire terms, and being this young means that I don’t have a ton of self-control. I knew I had to stay away, because I knew you’d… ask me.”

He snorted. “You can read minds, too?”

“No, I just know what a masochist you are and how fast you’d pop a boner at the idea of being my afternoon snack.”

“Eh… it’s like a semi.”

Lana scoffed, peeking over her shoulder to smirk at him. “You asshole.”

“Right?” 

They waited for a moment, a standoff, Archer desperately wanting to move forward but heeding Lana’s warning, for the moment. He still didn’t entirely believe her, taking another drink from the glass bottle, but the idea of Lana being an all-powerful vampire who could rip his throat out, well, it was kind of hot. He did have a thing for powerful, domineering women.

“So… what now? Like, are you coming back to ISIS?”

“No,” she said, turning to face him again. “I can’t. They— no one can know.”

“Why not, Lana? I mean, in the grand scheme of things of insane shit that’s happened to us, a vampire ranks like… half a notch above crazy cyborg or actually going to frickin’ space.”

“You’re not even supposed to know! I’m taking a huge risk right now talking to you about it. The Authority generally, uh, _frowns upon_ humans knowing about our existence.”

“The Authority? Who or what is that? Actually wait, I don’t care. If that was the case, Lana, why did you even come?”

“I—”

“Wait. Phrasing. Okay go.”

“Shitass. But…” She paused, biting her lip. “I was worried about you.” 

“Um—”

“Shut up. I’ve been keeping an eye on you, okay? Ever since I disappeared, it’s basically like you stopped giving a shit about yourself.”

“That implies I ever did actually give a shit in the first place.”

“You asshole,” she said, sighing. Her eyes softened, before she glanced at the window. The sun was rising in the distance. “Fuck. I have to go.”

“Please don’t tell me you set fire in the daylight. Or combust or whatever.”

She stared at him, blankly. “If I cover my skin I’m fine. Otherwise, it just kind of gives me a rash. A bad rash.”

“Thank you, Lana, I desperately needed to know those details.”

“Shut _up_. But that’s not why I have to leave.”

“Why don’t you just stay?” he blurted, not at all desperately wanting her around. As much as he hated to admit it to himself (like he did with everything). They had so much history together, losing her had carved a place out of him that he thought he’d never get back. And now she was leaving all over again?

“Because Woodhouse will be coming through the door in about five minutes to wake you up. I’m sorry. I have to go.”

He glanced back towards the bedroom door, and by the time that he turned his head, Lana was gone, glass doors closed neatly like she’d never been there at all. Archer groaned, flopped down on his back, arms over his head. He allowed himself one small, quiet sob of grief, pushing his palms into his eyes, frustrated. Maybe it had been an insane, liquor-induced dream. There was really no way of knowing for sure.

Still…

The sun bore down over the morning sky, casting light through the bedroom, sunrays over his eyes. He winced, turning away, as Woodhouse knocked at the door.

The next few days were spent moping around, alone, surrounded by half-empty ice filled glasses, watery condensation on tables left in their wake. He mulled over whether it had been a dream or not, the memory of Lana’s worried face becoming foggier each time he tried to picture it again. 

It hadn’t been the first time his consciousness had cooked up some image of what he wanted to see, rather than what was actually real. He hoped, somewhat, that Lana would show up again, hungry and aching for him, but as the second week passed, sleepless and miserable, he started the indelicate process of letting go, again. That process generally involved a lot of naked women and alcohol, with a nice helping of denial. 

Still, weekends and days off found him perusing bookstores, as he usually did, wandering aimless and drunk through the city in search of knowledge (or hookers, as he usually did). If he ended up spending almost five hundred dollars on anthologies about vampires at a sketchy, dimly lit store, it was strictly his business. 

He hightailed it back to his apartment like a kid hiding porno, locking his bedroom door as Woodhouse gave him searching, weary looks, ignoring Mother’s calls as he flipped open the first leather-bound book.

“Okay, so, to prevent a vampire attack I should bake bread with vampire blood… and eat it. Let me get my freakin’ chef hat,” he muttered, slamming the text shut. He groaned, leaning back on the pillows. “This is so incredibly stupid. Kill yourself, Archer.”

His cell phone started ringing. He let it go for a while, taking another sip of his drink. Eventually, it annoyed him, so he flipped it open, figuring it was Mother again, ready for it to go to voicemail. It was Cheryl instead. Rolling his eyes, Archer hit the button, putting the phone up to his ear.

“What.”

“...This better not be a robot again.”

“Cheryl, it’s me. Archer.”

“Oh… okay! Assuming you are ‘Archer’, I mean, if you’re not, please disregard. I still need that signature.”

“Ugh. I’m not at the office right now, you psycho, can’t this wait?” 

“It did wait. For like… almost three weeks. I really need this signed, Ms. Archer is starting to get antsy.”

“...So?”

“And by antsy I mean she’s threatening to fire me again, and/or destroy all the things I love, so could I just… come by or something? I’m taking my lunch in like 10 minutes, seriously, I just really need you to sign off on this.”

“Fine, idiot.” He flipped open another book. “Just… buzz and Woodhouse will let you up.” 

“Fine. Idiot!” she retorted, the line going dead. He chuckled to himself, tipsy and elbow deep in ridiculous supernatural lore. God, there was so much of it. There had to be something that would help him find Lana, or help her, or whatever. There had to be. It wasn’t like he cared or anything.

Cheryl showed up at his bedroom door, a reluctant Woodhouse guiding her inside, obviously remembering the reasons regarding the last few times she’d been there alone. She was red in the face, like she’d been crying or screaming, hair mussed and shirt wrinkled with her folders clutched to her chest.

Not exactly expecting her in his bedroom (he’d have to creatively punish Woodhouse, later), Archer slammed the tome he’d been reading shut. He leapt to his feet and grabbed his glass, feigning casual, Woodhouse shutting the door quietly and fleeing. 

“Hey, so... what do I have to sign?”

“Oh hey!” she said, shooting past him to grab one of the books. He reached for it as she toddled past him, flipping through the pages haphazardly, with her folders discarded on the bed. “I totally have a first edition copy of this at my house! Why are you reading about vampire whores?” 

“Vampire _lore_ , Carol.”

“ _Duh_ , this book is _literally_ about vampire whores. And their... broods. Covens. Clutches? Clutches of vampires. Slutty vampire clutches. Yeah, I think that’s the term!”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you know about this… how.”

“Oh, it’s kind of a thing in my family or whatever, like _studying_ vampires, and how to hunt them and stuff. My great uncle Percy collected all these idiot books that live in the basement at my place now. I mean after he got institutionalized or whatever,” She shrugged, tossing the book onto the bed. “...What did I come here for again?”

“Cheryl, you should show me those books.”

“Oh should I?” she suggested. Damn it, she wanted something from him in return. He took a big mouthful of his watery scotch, mentally preparing himself. 

“Okay, let me rephrase. What would... make _you_ want to show _me_ those books?”

“...You still have those paddles, right?”

He internally groaned, but couldn’t deny that well, she was a halfway attractive girl. A girl in general. Something with a hole. Even if the whole abuse thing was weird (kinda). He didn’t even dislike her, she was entertaining and attentive at the very least, but bringing her back to bed might be a generally bad idea considering there was a maybe vampire ex-girlfriend that might very well eat him in the night for sticking his dick in crazy. Maybe. If she even existed.

“I do,” he started, as Cheryl perked up, dropping the book back onto the bed. She started undoing the buttons of her blouse, his eyes following her fingers until they pulled the last one loose. “Um, I haven’t exactly agreed yet.”

“You want those books, right?”

He sighed dramatically, starting to loosen his tie. “Well, I _guess_.”

Cheryl unhooked her bra.

They didn’t even have sex, Cheryl eager, instead, for some particularly brutal spanking. He took out all of his recent Lana-related frustrations on the reddened skin of her ass, favoring his hands over a paddle this time, until she was hot to the touch, keening on his lap, pussy wet and dripping. When she was finally squirming hard enough, out of his touch, he pushed her legs apart, sliding two fingers into her, eagerly fingerfucking her until she came squealing in his hold.

Cheryl laid there for a moment, on top of him, blissed out, before she jolted back upright, tripping over her feet to land face-first on the floor. “Oh my God, what time is it, I’m gonna be late!”

“No, don’t mind me. I’ll just sit here with my raging erection and my complete lack of vampire whore books. Lore books.”

She had gotten most of her clothing on, jumping into one of her heels, before looking back at him. “Could you, like, sign the report, already? I need to get back to work.”

“Vampire whores, Carol!”

“I know, I know,” she pleaded, “Come to my house later, I’ll get them for you.”

“Vampire whores?”

“No, the _books_.”

“And also a blowjob.”

“Yes, okay, fine.”

“A slobbery, deep-throaty, gratuitous blowjob.”

“ _Okay_ , also a slobbery ass blowjob. Jeez.” She looked herself in the mirror, pushing her bobby pins back in place. He flipped open the folder, mostly scribbled a signature where she’d marked with a little post-it, maybe or maybe not leaving sticky fingerprints from her juices on the page. Cheryl turned to face him. “Do I look okay?”

“...Eh.”

“Douche.” She snapped up the folder, and then disappeared out the doorway. The clicks of her heels stopped and turned back, and she poked her head back in the door. “Oh, I totally forgot! You might want to get some silver chains. Vampires don’t like silver. I mean, just for reasons, or whatever, it’s not like they _actually_ exist.” 

They stared at each other for a very long moment. 

“... _Okaybye_!”

“Idiot.” 

He licked the taste of her off his fingers, fixed his tie. Then headed out to the nearest pawnshop and bought the longest silver chains he could find.

As it would turn out, Cheryl knew a lot about vampires, mostly from her family's exploits and the detailed records they’d kept. He found himself at the Tunt Manor most nights, Cheryl exuberantly showing him books and old, dusty diaries, perched on the sofa across from him starry-eyed as he read. 

She was absolutely bat-shit insane, but as upwards of a month of their every-other-night-ly visits with no vampire-Lana in sight stretched on, he did find her weirdly endearing. The mansion was big, empty and quiet, Cheryl the sole resident, it was no wonder she was eager for some company. Even if Archer acknowledged he wasn’t exactly ideal, buried in a mountain of leather-bound anthologies, ignoring her most of the time. 

They fucked a lot, too, Cheryl always incredibly eager for sex, even if he did feel really weird about choking her. He didn’t do it very often, she enjoyed spankings as much as he did, holding her down by the shoulders and paddling the hell out of her ass. He was frustrated, feeling just as crazy as she most definitely was, chasing some drunken delusion he had no way of proving was real. Save for some crazy rich girl with her books, and her great uncle’s diaries maybe proving that Lana, the vampire, wasn’t just some figment of his imagination.

He usually went home, but some nights found him too tired and drunk to do anything other than collapse in Cheryl’s bed, far away from her, sprawled out. She curled into a ball on the other side, talking herself to sleep, taking medication sometimes to knock herself out cold. Sometimes he took it with her, eager to be rid of the constant images of Lana. Always Lana.

It was one of those nights. He found himself groggily awoken, the light of the full moon spilling in through the billowy, old-fashioned curtains, disoriented as he realized he wasn’t in his own place. He rubbed his eyes, gathering his surroundings, looking to his right and finding Cheryl decidedly absent. 

There were bloodstains on the bed. 

His eyes tracked to the en-suite bathroom, more mottled red smudges trailing through the open door. He could hear Cheryl whimpering. 

“Oh shit.” He slid off the bed, naked, crouching low, next to the frame. His throat tightened as he heard a wet, sucking noise from the bathroom. Retrieving his gun from the side table, he snagged the silver chain as well, and then sidled up to the door, toeing it open further. 

Cheryl had been dragged into the corner, next to the claw-foot tub, a hunched, dark mass of shredded, bloody fabric between her thighs. It was _moving_.

She caught his eyes in the doorway, _something’s_ hand over her mouth, and bleated out in muffled terror. Or excitement. With her it was hard to tell. Shit, she should’ve stayed quiet.

The figure hissed, having realized his presence, rearing its head back, and lo and behold, _Lana_ , her mouth smeared with Cheryl’s blood, fangs fully lowered and eyes wild with bloodlust. He aimed his gun steadily between her breasts, knowing from the texts that a bullet to the heart wouldn’t do shit, but it at least looked threatening. 

“Lana!” he bellowed, as she pulled Cheryl closer to her, draping her electric body over the other woman’s slighter form. “ _Lana_ , what the fuck!”

She hissed, the hand on Cheryl’s thigh squeezing hard, blood oozing from the wound in her leg onto the floor. She whined in response, high in her throat, deathly white from the blood loss.

Ever a man of action, Archer realized that Cheryl didn’t have a hell of a lot of time left in her current state (he didn’t care), and so he whipped his gun at Lana’s head, sending her off balance before he rushed her, throwing the silver chain around her neck and manhandling her off of Cheryl’s prone form. She hissed as the alloy burned her skin, kicking as he tugged her away. She was stronger than him, supernatural and wild, thrashing her way out of his hold as she bolted to the ceiling, hanging there on her hands and knees hissing at the two of them.

Silver dangling between his outreached hands, Archer waited, not daring to move as Lana slid down the wall, landing in a crouch in the bath tub. She seemed to have somewhat come to her senses, her enlarged pupils flicking down to Cheryl, still making small noises on the tile, clutching her leg.

“Oh holy shit,” came the slightly garbled words from her overstretched fangs, which she quickly retracted, as she realized what she’d done. “Fuck, Cheryl, I’m _so sorry_. I couldn’t—”

“ _Sorry_?” said Cheryl, dazed. She tried to sit up, but ended up tipping over onto her side, Archer kneeling down to catch her before she landed on the tile. “Like oh my God, can we do that _again_!?”

He sighed, taking in the morbid scene that had come to pass before him.

“Yeah… no. I’ve got nothing.”

“ _Right_?” 

Cheryl sighed dreamily and then mercifully, wonderfully, passed out in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, baking vampire blood into bread is a real thing. 
> 
> Part two should be up in the near future, and part three to follow.


End file.
